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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074650">Exoneration</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioluminescence/pseuds/Radioluminescence'>Radioluminescence</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Transformers (IDW Generation One)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Conditioning, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Stockholm Syndrome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:28:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,322</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074650</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioluminescence/pseuds/Radioluminescence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift wants to find his utopia, even if he doesn't realize it. Wing helps him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Drift | Deadlock/Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Exoneration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054141">Imprisoning</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account">orphan_account</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Soooo a long time ago, I wrote a story that has since been orphaned. It was plagued with inconsistencies, out of character writing, and was generally flawed (nothing says 2016 like switching the perspective at the end of the story amirite). When I returned to this account I found out that a lot of people have continued to enjoy it in my absence. I still think it was a cool idea, just poorly executed. So this is my redemption arc!</p><p>I hated even reading it to write this story, but I’m trying to be more forgiving to my past self, who was still learning how to write at the time. Hopefully, this shows a bit of improvement when it comes to action and form! To all those who read, left kudos, and commented on the original: thank you. It’s been three/four years and I know most people will be gone by now, but I still read those comments to this day.</p><p>I feel the need to clarify here as a warning: at one point in the story, Drift jumps off Wing’s balcony. This isn’t a suicide attempt but rather, a shot at trying to escape (though Wing assumes the former at first). I just want to put it out there, as it may be triggering content to some.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Redline is aghast when he sees the extent of the damage; a hobbled-together mash of parts and open circuitry that’s being transported on a gurney. Drift’s vocalizer was smashed upon impact, meaning he can only spit static to convey the pain he’s in. He’s otherwise incapacitated by energon loss.</p><p>With permission, Wing takes a seat in the medical bay to watch the Decepticon’s repair. The many frame incompatibilities require them to make adjustments to his plating, adding spires and finials where the metal one lay flat. He’s turned from a war machine into a work of art and Wing can’t stop admiring him. It’s amazing what a bit of care can do.</p><p>Redline starts from the bottom-up, programming new systems in and changing the very framework that makes up his body. When he gets to Drift’s faceplates, he takes one look at the damages and sighs.</p><p>“I’m going to have to replace his optics. Even if I could fix these, they wouldn’t link up to his optical feed.” He removes the remaining red shards from the holes where said optics should be.</p><p>“That’s fine.”</p><p>Drift has no input.</p><p>“Any preference on colour?” Redline kicks open a drawer underneath the circuit slab. “I’m going to have to check and see if I have red in stock, but if not I can just repurpose his neural wiring and give him yellow.”</p><p>Wing watches him rummage through the door for a second. “What about blue?”</p><p>Redline’s audials twitch. </p><p>“You’re going to give a Decepticon blue optics? I mean, I can, but he might not like it,” he says.</p><p>Wing looks at the immobile body. “I think I can convince him otherwise.”</p><p> </p><p>The first day is not the worst, but by far the most memorable. Drift looks at Wing’s condominium with thinly veiled disdain, only following Wing up the stairs under the threat of imprisonment if he disobeys.</p><p>He scrutinizes every belonging of Wing’s, sniffs the fuel he’s given, and checks every corner of his new room, as if expecting a bomb to denote there. Announcing that fact only made him angrier.</p><p>“What do you have to gain by keeping me here?” Drift asks. He thickens his voice with contempt. </p><p>“I’m doing you a favour.”</p><p>“You’re so full of slag. I mean, look at this place.” He gestures at the casing by the walls. Old artifacts and weaponry sit inside, protected by glass. Many of them come from Wing’s predecessors. “Is this where you take back all the treasures you find out in the desert?”</p><p>Wing reigns in his self-control to answer with a smile. “It’s true that I think you’re special, and worth a lot more than you give yourself credit for.”</p><p>Drift sneers. “Please. I already <em> know </em> I’m valuable, that’s why I should be by Megatron’s side. Only, you’re content to hold me prisoner here.”</p><p>“You’re not a prisoner.”</p><p>“I can’t leave. I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of being a prisoner.”</p><p>A deep vent. Wing turns around to clear the table he’s about to mix a cube on. “I’ve already explained to you why leaving isn’t an option. Take my advice: relax for a bit. Enjoy yourself--”</p><p>He doesn’t hear the sound of Drift picking up the chair but the ensuing impact almost takes him out. He stumbles back, his internal diagnostics booting the second they register pain. Looking down, he can see the metal plating above his hips, dented.</p><p>Drift is standing aside, a second chair already in hand. It scrapes against the floor as he drags it.</p><p>The sound of hydraulics cut through the air as Wing’s backplates shift. “Drift, you’re not a sparkling. Put it down.”</p><p>“Open the fragging door.”</p><p>Wing walks closer to him. “No.”</p><p>Before Drift can lift the chair over his head, Wing has crossed over the room and kneed him high enough to make him bend over. He disables the chair before Drift recovers, throwing the mech backwards. He hits the wall with enough force to make the room shake. Wing’s collection wobbles.</p><p>Drift isn’t incapacitated, but the shock keeps him in place long enough for Wing to make his point.</p><p>He leans in. “If you want to fight me, fine. I can arrange something. But not here.”</p><p>Without another word, he pushes Drift in the direction of the guest room. All that he hears when he turns his back to Drift is the sound of the door slamming, an echo in the now empty room.</p><p> </p><p>Drift gets sloppy when he’s angry.</p><p>Any coordination Wing teaches him is lost as he resorts to punches and kicks, only aiming to hurt instead of land a hit. Wing could easily get his hands under him for a flip and then call it a day, but then he wouldn’t learn from the experience.</p><p>Fighting is all about strategy. One wrong move at the start of the encounter can spiral into a series of hits and misses that end in your defeat. When they get home, he wants Drift to look back at this session and understand where he went wrong, how the placement of his feet had him off-balance and how easy it was for Wing to perform a sweeping kick that allowed his next lunge to push the air out of Drift’s intakes. It’s only when Drift starts thinking about the process that he’s going to make any noticeable improvement.</p><p>Wing doesn’t expect he will for some time, but when Drift does get to that point and recollects on this, it will all make sense.</p><p>Drift’s wincing now, as he picks himself up and hunches over to hide his dirtied frame from Wing. He’s sporting a few dents and chipped paint on his shins as the two big indicators that he’s been in a fight. Wing’s unmarred finish is proof he won that fight. Not that it’s any secret what they do up here, but it could be an added tool of persuasion, should it come to that.</p><p>For now, Drift will say nothing. He will hole himself up in his room to lick his wounds, not sparing any words on Wing except for when he requests fuel. At least he’s stopped throwing furniture and demanding to be let out.</p><p>Progress, then.</p><p> </p><p>Wing comes home with fuel for his energon stores one afternoon, only to find a crowd outside his rise.</p><p>Drift lies in a mangled position on the ground, venting loudly. Wing immediately runs to his side, placing a hand on his overheated plating. The crowd that’s encircling them closes the gap that he pushed through.</p><p>“Someone get a medic!” he cries. </p><p>Someone would have pinged Redline long before that, but he’s not thinking correctly amid the panic. He searches for the throb of Drift’s spark, relieved to hear its small noises within the spark casing, where it remains functional. The same can’t be said for Drift’s lower half. Wing can’t look at it without heaving.</p><p>But the most important thing is that Drift is online and easy to transport for repairs. His legs took the brunt of the impact, Redline says. His calm demeanour reassures Wing, who has one of Drift’s uninjured hands in his own and is squeezing it with enough pressure to signal to Drift that he’s there. The whole scene gives him an odd feeling of deja vu. </p><p>“He’ll have seen worse, during the war,” says Redline. “Not that I condone jumping out of windows though.”</p><p>“I locked the door to the balcony, I was sure.”</p><p>“Might’ve thrown something to break the glass. Who’s to say; he’s been full of surprises.”</p><p>Full of surprises is an accurate descriptor. When Drift onlines a few hours later, he looks at his injuries with no pity. His EM field flares out, trying to displace the comfort Wing is beaming down on him.</p><p>“I don’t know why you bothered.” He turns his body away from Wing, taking his hand back.</p><p>Wing watches him for a minute. Drift’s legs, fresh out of repair, are tucked up but spread apart so that they don’t rub together. The one finial that was bent does not mimic the twitches or flicks of its twin. It’s probably the first time he’d ever describe Drift’s field as cautious. </p><p>He places a gentle hand on Drift’s shoulder. “Because you deserve to live a good life.”</p><p>Drift angles his helm toward him, his optics only a narrow sliver of blue. </p><p>“That’s not why I jumped,” he says.</p><p>Wing nods to hide his relief.</p><p>“You wouldn’t have gotten far though,” he replies. He pats Drift’s arm. “You know that.”</p><p>Drift offlines his optics and says nothing.</p><p>Before Drift is discharged from the medical facility, Wing goes through the motions of moving his few belongings to his room, turning the guest room obsolete. In spite of Drift’s true intentions when he jumped, he’d like to keep a closer optic on him now.</p><p> </p><p>As the inevitability of his life here sets in, Drift becomes more detached from his surroundings. He spends hours at the window, looking up at the surface with a yearning that Wing thought only flight frames could have. His energon intake slows. What little he does consume doesn’t help his accuracy when they spar.</p><p>It may have all been too much, too fast: the fighting, the life sentence, domestic life with Wing. The habits he’s had to train out of him were just symptoms of a larger problem; he’s haunted by old ghosts. Hands that have the imprint of a gun pressed into them are now empty, and it must feel as though he’s lost his way.</p><p>He doesn’t know any better and Wing can’t fault him for that. He should’ve been more careful. Sparring, though an invaluable teaching asset, might’ve been too heavy a blow to his pride. Years spent under the protection of a reputation that has been scrubbed clean by the City aren’t easy to come back from. This is the adjustment period. It’s not inspiring or pleasing to the optic.</p><p>He’s off to discuss the training schedule with Axe one night when he sees Drift’s immobile shape on the berth on his way out the door and pauses. Though happy they’re out of the destructive phase, this comes with its own set of concerns. He doesn’t like seeing him like this; it’s all too reminiscent of the life Drift lived before the war. More than just boredom, he looks like a mech that’s given up.</p><p>He’s addressed his concerns to Drift on numerous occasions, without yielding any results. Has he given up?</p><p>Wing looks down at his hands. He’s not even sure, anymore. Drift seemed a lot stronger than this.</p><p>Overpowering the urge to lock the door, which has since become a learned habit, he lets it shut behind him and makes his way toward the building’s entrance. He does his best to keep quiet, looking over his shoulder when he turns the corner and exits down the stairs. His room is one of few; Drift will still have to find his way out of the lobby if he wants to go outside.</p><p>Those doors are also locked, though he’s unsure if Drift ever paid much attention to that detail. He checks his memory banks just to be sure, finding no evidence to suggest the contrary. Compared to his lockdown routine, this one’s a lot more subtle. The system checks your designation number and matches it to what’s on file, no mechanism required. There’s always the option of using brute force to pry it open, but he’ll make sure it doesn’t come to that.</p><p>Lying in wait, Wing tucks himself around a corner and watches. No lock on the door, no guardian hanging over his shoulder; it’s ripe for the taking. He knows Drift was listening to him leave, he always does. He just has to be patient.</p><p>When Drift does appear, he’s different. He’s walking with a level of care that Wing’s been trying to instill in him for weeks. He’s guarding his back, scanning the surrounding area before he walks into the open. He moves like a shadow.</p><p>Wing’s finials flap softly in triumph. </p><p>He watches Drift try to unlock the door, only to be met with a loud beep. The subsequent attempts see no success either, and Wing can see the fright lock itself into Drift’s frame: his shoulders slump, fingers forming two fists.</p><p>Wing intervenes then, walking up to Drift and announcing his presence with a hand on one shoulder.</p><p>“Drift, I’m really--”</p><p>He doesn’t get to finish his praise before Drift has flung himself at him. Wing takes a defensive stance, trying to keep his feet flat on the ground as Drift snarls in his left audial. He’s anticipating the first hook, but it’s still clean enough to inflict pain. By the second attempt, he’s better prepared. He pivots his body, protecting his face by adjusting the position of his shoulder.</p><p>Drift’s punches are automated. Warbled shrieks and screams erupt from his mouth and any pretence of dignity is erased.</p><p>Wing absorbs the blows, biting down the urge to correct form. He sticks his leg out, tripping Drift on the next rush forward and leaving him prone to a flip onto his back. The resounding clang feels loud enough to make the ground quake.</p><p>When his low energon levels and emotions get the better of him, Drift collapses into a heap on the floor, not unlike when he’s defeated in training. The difference is the quivering. Wing has never seen him show so much outward emotion, not even when he’s angry.</p><p>“Drift,” he begins, though he thinks the better of it and clamps down before he says something he’ll regret. Instead, he folds his legs in and joins him on the floor. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>To his surprise, Drift accepts his embrace. He ducks his shoulders down to make himself smaller and finds a configuration in Wing’s arms that doesn’t feel awkward. Wing lets one of his namesakes stretch out, shielding them. The halls are empty but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out in public, a place where Drift could get defensive about a gesture of this calibre. </p><p>Wing holds him, noting Drift’s bit lip and trembling hands.</p><p>“Hey. Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers. “Do what you need to.”</p><p>It provokes a reaction, though not one he’d wanted. Drift keens, the surge of energy in his systems making his optics flare.</p><p>“I’m going to die here!” he shouts. His voice is uneven with panic and anger. Even as he speaks, it seems he’s not sure whether it’s supposed to be a declaration or statement. </p><p>Wing holds him tighter.</p><p>“This is a cage!” Drift says. “You’re just trying to break me.”</p><p>“It isn’t, Drift.”</p><p>“Let me go!”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Drift tries to swipe at him, a reflex from his Decepticon days. Redline removed his claws and fangs upon his arrival, so his fingers do nothing but graze the main fuel line on Wing’s neck. The tips come away clean and Wing alive.</p><p>The fight quickly bleeding out in him, Drift shrinks back. Wing follows him. Drift is all but smothered by Wing and his kibble, which complete a protective shell over his body.</p><p>“Please let me go,” Drift says, quieter this time. “I won’t tell anyone about the City.”</p><p>“I can’t do that.”</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>“Stop thinking about that. Exist in this moment, Drift.” He rubs a hand down Drift’s back. “Remember what I told you about finding peace? You have to let those old things go if you’re ever to be happy.”</p><p>Drift’s words are ground through his denta. “I don’t want to be happy here.”</p><p>“You will be,” Wing reassures him. He pulls back. </p><p>Drift’s voice may be hoarse and disembodied, but none of it translates to his face. He sees someone lonely and afraid. For the first time, he sees Drift’s facade peel away. The mech that stands behind it, who has no guns, swords, or any self-confidence to speak of, stands with his head bowed. He’s towed by no philosophy and owes loyalty to no one. Yet.</p><p>Wing reaches out to him. “I promise, I won’t let any harm come to you.” He cups Drift’s faceplate in both hands.</p><p>“You can’t promise that.” Drift’s voice shakes. He looks up at Wing with an unknown emotion.</p><p>“There’s no war here; I don’t have to worry about empty promises. Neither do you.”</p><p>Drift shoves at him. “I have to, it’s my duty.”</p><p>“Duty to who? To Megatron? He’s not here, Drift. I’m here. Listen to me.”</p><p>Drift’s head shake is slower than usual. Wing tips his head up with two fingers.</p><p>“Hey,” he says slowly. “It’s okay.” His fingers spread, the tips resting on Drift’s face.</p><p>Drift stares ahead, blankly. </p><p>“You have me. I’m here for you. It’s okay.” He keeps his touches gentle. The sound of Drift’s engine quiets to a humble purr.</p><p>He has to keep Drift calm; establish himself as not being a threat. In all his efforts to push Drift away from the cold life of war, he neglected to give him this comfort. Drift has completely shut down in the face of it.</p><p>“You want to be happy. You want to find your utopia,” Wing continues. “Can’t you see it’s here? I would never enforce any of this if I didn’t think I was doing right by you.”</p><p>There are places beyond the residential sector he’d love Drift to see: museums that have preserved ancient history and a number of sights belonging to Old Cybertron that Drift would never have known as a Dead End leaker. Being here, with Wing, is a chance at rebirth. It’s a taste so sweet he won’t be able to drink it all at once, but by giving him these small portions, he might be able to one day.</p><p>Drift pretends not to be torn over Wing’s words as he holds him, two indistinguishable white shapes on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>Getting Drift back to the room is easier than expected. A guiding hand on the back helps him onto his feet and up the stairs. Wing takes the precaution of walking from behind, on the lookout for his neighbours and colleagues that might spook Drift back into a worried state. </p><p>Drift is fine up until he sees Wing’s front door. There, he tenses up, vents blasting out hot air.</p><p>“I’m not going back in there,” he says. </p><p>“Don’t worry, we’ll be out tomorrow.”</p><p>“No, I’m not--” He turns around to look at Wing. “Please don’t make me go back there.”</p><p>“You need to refuel.” </p><p>“Please.”</p><p>“Drift.” Wing steps forward, into his space. “You didn’t think I could keep promises? Here’s one: I promise you’ll be out the first thing tomorrow. Consider this a trust-building exercise.”</p><p>Drift remains in place. Wing squeezes his arm.</p><p>“I trust you, do you trust me?”</p><p>Drift shakes his head but the words don’t come out. Wing builds on that, practically draping himself over Drift’s body.</p><p>“I’ll be with you,” says Wing.</p><p>He pins the fins on his helm back, making himself thin enough to slot up next to Drift. They’re sharing the same air, existing in the same place. If this doesn’t show Drift their congruity, he doesn’t know what will. </p><p>Instead, Drift kisses him. It’s not unwelcome, but it oversteps the initial offer of friendship. </p><p>He supposes it’s a symptom of Drift’s isolation. It’s the first action he’s imposed on Wing that hasn’t come with the threat of violence. It could be because he sees it as a form of ownership or else a way to wrestle control back from Wing’s clenched fist. Perhaps it’s a way of establishing himself as having the power he so desperately wants, without having to win it in combat.</p><p>He can have that. Wing can play this part too.</p><p>When he unlocks the chamber door later that evening, finding Drift deep into recharge and curled into himself, Wing takes a long sip of his fuel, and smiles.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>come talk to me on my <a href="https://amaltheeia.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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